


Potential

by BrighteyedJill



Series: Potential [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Child Abuse, Dissociation, Hurt No Comfort, I shook a witcher and intergenerational trauma fell out, M/M, Nonconathon Treat, Painful Sex, Power Imbalance, Promiscuity, Underage Rape/Non-con, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, canon compliant mind control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:07:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25065160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: Lambert has never responded well to authority. When the head of his year group imposes some especially harsh discipline, Lambert is determined not to let it affect him.
Relationships: OMC Witcher/Lambert (The Witcher)
Series: Potential [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910167
Comments: 28
Kudos: 135
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Potential

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nonconamod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonconamod/gifts).



> Thank you to [hobbitdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon), [some_stars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/some_stars) and [eatingcroutons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatingcroutons) for their extensive assistance.
> 
> About the underage content: These events take place between Lambert's Trial of the Grasses and his first year as a full witcher. No specific age is stated, but he's not at the age of consent for most of this story.

Lambert tackles Ash, and they go rolling into the dirt of the training courtyard, all flying elbows and shouted curses. Lambert can barely hear the sound of his year-mates yelling over the pounding of blood in his ears. His world narrows to the thud of his fists against flesh and the scratch of blunt nails against his arm where Ash is trying to make him let go.

“Enough!”

Lambert is dragged upright by the back of his jerkin, and Ash scrambles away from him with blood dripping from his lip. Lambert looks up to see Master Torrin, the new head of his year group, fixing him with a furious glare. “You again. I should have known. The rest of you, back to your drills.”

Torrin doesn’t let go of Lambert, but drags him bodily across the courtyard. Lambert is fast, and much stronger than he was before the Grasses, but he’s nowhere near a match for a full witcher. Beyond that, Torrin is huge. With his broad shoulders and thick arms, he’s at least twice Lambert’s size. There’s no point in struggling.

Torrin dumps him on the floor of an equipment room and slams the door behind them. “Clothes off, pup,” he snaps. 

Lambert glares at him a moment, then yanks off his jerkin and sets to work on the rest of his clothes. He’s been strapped before plenty of times by Master Esset, who’d looked after them before the Trials. And before that, Lambert had endured near-daily beatings from his Pa, so he isn’t scared. Torrin hasn’t had cause to punish Lambert yet, but he can’t be much worse that the others.

“On your knees.” Torrin points to the center of the floor. He’s taken his belt off, and holds it doubled over in his right hand. “Now.”

With his head held high, Lambert kneels and waits for the blows to begin.

“Your biggest problem, little witcher, is your mouth,” Torrin says from behind him. At the sound of the leather sliding through his hand, Lambert almost flinches, but he's had enough practice repressing that urge that he’s able to stay still. “You never learned to shut up.”

Lambert bites back half a dozen retorts that come to mind, because not answering will be funnier. 

“We’re going to give that mouth something better to do.” Torrin steps in front of Lambert. He isn’t holding the belt anymore, but his breeches are open, and his stiff cock is in his hand. “Open.”

Lambert stares at him, eyes stuttering from Torrin’s cock to his hand, looking for the belt he’d expected. There isn’t one. Torrin isn’t going to beat him, it seems. He has a different punishment in mind, one that Lambert doesn’t understand how to take.

“Open your mouth.” Torrin presses his thumb against the hinge of Lambert’s jaw, like he’s trying to make a horse open up for the bit. Lambert’s lips part, and the blunt head of Torrin’s cock bulls into his mouth, stretching him wide.

“Lips over your teeth, boy.”

Lambert is so used to obeying that voice in the practice yard that he does as Torrin says. The cock is rigid and heavy on his tongue, and warmer than he thought it would be. It’s strange feeling someone else’s prick, but beyond that Lambert doesn’t get much of a chance to form an opinion. With a grunt of satisfaction, Torrin grabs the back of Lambert’s skull with a meaty hand and pushes his head down. The thick organ fills Lambert’s throat, choking him. That’s familiar, he thinks, and he can almost feel his Pa’s fingers around his throat. His nose is buried in the coarse, wiry hair at the base of Torrin’s cock. His newly enhanced senses bring Lambert the smell of sweat and soap, and a faint undertone of piss. He can’t fucking breathe. Tears spring to his eyes, and he blinks them away to see Torrin glaring down at him.

Torrin pushes him off his cock. “Are you fucking crying?”

Lambert can’t speak for coughing, but he shakes his head. He isn’t. He doesn’t cry, no matter what.

Torrin grabs Lambert by the hair and drags him back down. This time he fucks into Lambert’s mouth at a brutal pace, cutting off his air and pounding into his throat. Lambert slaps at Torrin, tries to scratch him, but Torrin simply holds Lambert down on his cock until Lambert’s vision starts to blur and he can’t coordinate his blows. 

“None of that,” Torrin growls. “You earned this punishment, now take it.”

He pulls out just long enough for Lambert to gasp for breath before returning to his relentless fucking. Lambert lets his hands fall to his sides, squeezes his eyes shut, and tilts up his chin so it doesn’t hurt so much when Torrin shoves into him. Like rolling with a punch in the training yard to soften a blow. After an eternity, Torrin pushes Lambert’s head down all the way and holds him there, as something hot and liquid slides down Lambert’s throat. Coming inside him, Lambert notes. He didn’t know you could come in someone’s mouth. 

Torrin steps away, leaving Lambert to drop to all fours, gasping for air. He wipes the tears and snot from his face and just barely manages not to vomit up the come that sits in his belly like a brick. He’s fine. Torrin didn’t even hit him. He’s had worse punishments than this, lots of them. Probably.

“Get dressed and get back out there,” Torrin says, in a perfectly even, almost friendly voice. “You’re going to apologize to Ash. Then you’ve got a lesson to finish.” Torrin buckles his belt and strides back into the sunny courtyard. 

That’s the first time.

A week later, Lambert loses his temper and snaps, “I fucking know!” when Master Torrin tries to correct his footwork. 

A thunderous look crosses Torrin’s face, and the other boys laugh as Torrin marches Lambert away. When Torrin closes the door behind them, Lambert blurts, “I’m not doing that again!”

“‘I’m not doing that again,’” Torrin repeats in a high, mocking voice. Then he switches to his regular tones as he tugs at his belt. “Lambert, Lambert. When will you learn to take the punishment you’re asking for?”

Torrin doesn’t wait for Lambert to reply before he lays into him with the belt. Lambert had thought he could take a strapping, but Torrin is fucking strong, and he’s not holding back. Lambert curls up and puts his arms over his head for protection. It feels a lot like a bad night with his Pa, except Pa had always been careful not to beat Lambert so hard he’d lose his labor. Witchers heal fast though, and Torrin knows it. Since the Changes, Lambert can endure much more pain before he’s too injured to continue. 

By the time Torrin drops the belt, Lambert feels boneless and floaty, like his body belongs to someone else. When Torrin pulls him up by the hair and fucks his mouth, Lambert goes limp and lets him do it. It doesn’t hurt as much as the rest, anyway.

The next week, Lambert punches an older boy who’d been talking shit about one of Lambert’s year-mates. Master Torrin apologizes to the other instructor, and drags Lambert off by the wrist. 

This time, Lambert has a knife in his hand and is already lunging by the time Torrin turns back from the door. Torrin disarms Lambert easily, almost casually, and has him pressed face-first against the wall with a knee between Lambert’s thighs with frustratingly little effort. 

Lambert screams his fury against the wall, but Torrin smacks his head against the wall once, with controlled force. Lambert goes limp as the room spins around him.

“Your little friend Micha, the one you’re so protective of,” Torrin says, and Lambert’s heart thumps painfully against his ribs. “The two of you are thick as thieves.”

So what? Micha is nice to Lambert, nicer than all the other boys who’d been together here for years before Lambert arrived. And if the other boys are allowed to have friends, Lambert is, too. There’s no rule against it.

“He’s not the best trainee, is he?” Torrin asks. 

That’s true enough. Micha is decent at Signs, but his swordwork has never been stellar, and he’s always been skinnier than the rest of them.

“Do you know what happens to trainees that don’t succeed?”

No, Lambert doesn’t. He knows boys die in the Trials, but he didn’t know there were ways other than that to fail at becoming a witcher. Torrin’s not asking just for his own amusement, though, and Lambert clenches his hands at his sides, waiting to be told what Torrin wants this time.

“We can’t go releasing half-trained mutants out into the world,” Torrin said. “We have to put them down.”

Lambert’s breath is coming only shallowly now. He knows that some of the boys in the older groups go missing sometimes. He hadn’t known why.

“Who do you think decides which trainees continue in the program?”

Lambert hasn’t been told, but it’s obvious. Who else but the head of the year group would make that determination?

“You’re a smart boy, Lambert. Are you really going to continue to be such a bad sport about taking your punishment?”

Lambert presses his forehead into the wall. It isn’t fair. No one cares about _him_. No one would protect _him_. Even Micha has plenty of other friends; if Micha were in Lambert’s position, the loss of just one year-mate wouldn’t be much of a problem. If Micha were in Lambert’s position, Micha would get to keep fighting. 

But then again, what does it matter if Lambert lets this happen? Lambert has been taking beatings all his life, and at least what Torrin wants doesn’t hurt for long afterwards.

“I asked you a question, pup. Are you going to behave?”

Lambert nods.

Torrin steps away, leaving Lambert slumped against the wall. “Show me.”

Lambert drops to his knees in front of Torrin. His head is still spinning a little, but that just makes it feel like a bad dream, which is fine with Lambert. None of this _matters._ Lambert doesn’t want Torrin’s cock, but he doesn’t want to be a witcher, either. He didn’t want to leave his Ma behind to get beat on, or go through the agony of the Trials. He doesn’t want to train all day with instructors who are never satisfied, or see boys he knows die on the mages’ tables. In the midst of all that, what’s one more thing he doesn’t want and can’t stop?

Lambert loosens Torrin’s belt and breeches, takes out his cock, and puts his mouth on it. He has no idea what he’s doing, really, but Torrin gives him instructions, and Lambert follows them, just like he does learning a new weapon. Torrin doesn’t choke Lambert until the very end, when he pushes Lambert’s head down and spills down his throat. He tucks away his cock, then ruffles Lambert’s hair and says, “Good boy.” Lambert pushes down the traitorous bloom of warm satisfaction those words bring. 

Lambert thinks, occasionally, of asking someone if this is a normal sort of punishment. The other trainees complain about running the Killer and getting beaten for shirking chores, but he hasn’t heard anyone mention this. Maybe it’s a punishment reserved for real incorrigibles like Lambert. There are other instructors, and the mages, and even the adult witchers who stop by from time to time that he might ask. Or maybe one of the older trainees would tell him. 

One morning while he has stable cleaning duty, he asks Alvern, a sharp-eyed and canny boy two years above him, “Do you think the instructors are ever… too harsh?”

“Ha! Too harsh?” Alvern flicks a shovelful of manure at Lambert’s boots, making him dance back. “It’s their job to make us into witchers. Everybody comes up for punishment sometimes. Though the way you behave, smart-mouth, it’s no wonder Master Torrin has to keep you on a short leash.”

“Oh.” Lambert jabs his shovel into the muck with unnecessary violence. “Sure.”

“Hey, cheer up, pipsqueak. Happens to the best of us. It’s worst the first couple years after the Grasses. Then you just get used to it.” Alvern shrugs philosophically. “Worth it if it means you’ll be good enough to get out on the Path someday. Besides, old Torrin always singles out one of his year group to be extra tough on. He only does it because he thinks you have potential.”

“Yeah, great,” Lambert says dully. If every boy here gets disciplined this way, then there’s no point complaining. It’s just another lump in the shit sandwich that is the life of a witcher trainee. 

The first time Master Torrin fucks Lambert properly, it’s because Lambert disarms him in a bout. Lambert’s been getting faster and faster since the most recent round of Changes, and he’s been working on techniques that prioritize speed over strength. Still, when he locks Master Torrin’s blade and flips it out of reach, Lambert can hardly believe it. He crows in triumph and moves to put his blade to Torrin’s throat.

Then Torrin sweeps Lambert’s legs out from under him and comes up with a hidden dagger, which he presses against Lambert’s neck once he has him pinned down. “Never count your victory before it’s certain,” he growls.

Torrin lets him up, but after the lesson he drops a hand on Lambert’s shoulder to hold him back. Resigned, Lambert goes with him and starts stripping off his sweaty practice clothes. After Torrin’s shut the door, he says, “You’re just mad because I beat you.” 

Lambert turns around to see Torrin’s furious expression, and thinks about whether or not he’ll let Torrin hit him. He’s much stronger than he was when this began--he’s nearly Torrin’s height, even if he’s not as broad or bulky. 

Torrin sees the calculation in his eyes and turns on a cruel smile that makes Lambert’s stomach twist uneasily. “Being such an arrogant prick can get you killed on the Path.”

Lambert prepares to fling back a retort, but Torrin raises his hand and shapes it into a Sign. Lambert has just a moment to recognize it as Axii before the world goes hazy and soft. 

“Don’t worry,” Torrin says, and pets a hand down Lambert’s cheek while Lambert stands there, unmoving. “You can still hate this as much as you want.” 

Lambert lies down where Torrin tells him, spreads his legs when Torrin tells him, and can’t even struggle when Torrin pushes in dry, ripping into Lambert’s body with no care for his comfort. Lambert can’t even swear or shout. He has to just lie there like a rag doll while Torrin moves inside him, then fills Lambert with his come. 

“Stay,” Torrin says as he fastens his breeches.

Lambert’s stuck there, feeling the throb of abused muscles and the slow, ticklish drip of Torrin’s seed seeping out of him and dripping down his balls. When the Axii finally wears off, he’s missed supper.

By the end of the summer, Lambert has decided that if he can’t stop Torrin from fucking him, he may as well do what he can to make it less painful. After a bit of trial and error, he smuggles some grease out of the kitchens to keep under his bed. Every day before lessons he stretches himself with his fingers, spreading them until he can get four in with no trouble. It’s strange to spar with his ass slick and open. But when Torrin beckons to him after practice, Lambert figures it’s worth it to deny Torrin the pleasure of hurting him. 

This time Torrin doesn’t bother to Axii him, just pushes him up against the wall and shoves his prick in. “Aw, you prepared for me,” Torrin says, when he goes in easily. “You’ve always been a sharp boy. I knew you’d start to enjoy this.”

To Lambert’s surprise, Torrin reaches a hand around to grasp Lambert’s cock, and pumps him roughly. Lambert freezes, fingers clutching at the wall. No one’s touched his prick but him, and he didn’t know it would feel so good, a kind of insistent stimulation his own hand doesn’t bring. He grits his teeth against letting out any noise as his cock starts to stiffen in Torrin’s hand. Torrin stays there, with his cock filling Lambert up, while he strokes Lambert and makes him come up against the wall. 

No sooner has Lambert started to shoot than Torrin grabs his hips and fucks into him, hard. The peak of pleasure Lambert had been riding collapses, and his overstimulated body clamps down around Torrin. He brings his arm up so he can bite into it and muffle his scream as he writhes on Torrin’s cock, pinned in place by Torrin’s implacable grip. 

Torrin pulls out to spill against Lambert’s ass and thighs. As Lambert leans against the wall, Torrin runs his fingers through the mess and pushes some back into Lambert’s twitching hole. 

“You should learn to admit when you’ve been bested, pup.” Torrin gives Lambert’s soiled ass a gentle pat. “Clean yourself up before you go back inside. You’re a mess.” 

Lambert finds other ways to dampen Torrin’s enjoyment of his punishment. As long as Lambert is slicking his ass anyway, he may as well try to get the other trainees to fuck him. At first, it’s just to see if he can. If anyone will want him. He gets turned down a lot. He’s not sure if that’s because Torrin’s already fucking him, or if they’re just not interested. But when Lambert at last succeeds and Torrin pushes his fingers into Lambert to find someone else’s come, he’s so disgusted that he makes Lambert blow him instead. Lambert grins the whole time, even with a cock in his mouth. 

After that, it becomes a kind of game. Torrin isn’t special, isn’t doing something no one else does. Word spreads among the older trainees that Lambert is always up for a good time--or at least, a good time for them. While his mouth or ass is getting fucked, Lambert mentally reviews the week’s assignment from the bestiary, or practices his Sign gestures behind his back, or thinks about how annoyed Torrin will get when he smells the sex on Lambert. Most days, Lambert can find someone to come on him or in him before morning lessons and again before the afternoon. 

One morning he gets Ros, a ginger trainee in his final year, to come all over his face, even getting some in his hair. Lambert wipes it off, but not very well. His year-mates throw each other knowing looks during their sparring as soon as they get close enough to smell him. Master Torrin scowls at him, but doesn’t ask him to stay behind after. 

Whenever someone tries to give Lambert a reach-around, or asks if he wants a blow job in return, he refuses. The point is not pleasure. The point is to use up as much of himself as he can so there’s nothing more for Torrin to take.

After dinner one night, he’s blowing his yearmate Soren when the rest of the boys that share their room get back early from dishwashing duty. 

“Lambert doesn’t mind,” Soren says, when they would have left again. “Come on, practically everyone but us has already had a go.”

Lambert nods as well as his can with his mouth full of cock. It’ll be a nice class bonding activity, all teaming up to annoy their year head by making Lambert too repulsive to fuck. He spreads his legs and hears Cammin’s distinctive, low chuckle as he settles himself into place. Voltehre steps in after Soren comes down Lambert’s throat, and it goes on like that until Micha kneels by Lambert’s shoulder and asks, “Are you sure you want to--”

Lambert spits out the cock he’s sucking--not sure whose it is, anyway--and says, “What are you, chicken? Fuck me already.” He ignores the flash of hurt in Micha’s eyes and pushes back in rhythm when Micha puts it in him, trying to give him a good ride. The skills Torrin’s trained into him should be good for something. 

Lambert goes to bed sore and sticky, but it’s worth it for the look of disgust on Torrin’s face at morning training. 

Eight days before the Trial of the Mountains, Torrin beckons Lambert to stay behind after the morning session of sparring. The courtyard’s already deserted, with everyone in a hurry to get to the midday meal, and that suits Lambert just fine. He plants his feet when Torrin walks towards the equipment room. Torrin realizes he’s not following, and turns around with a raised eyebrow.

“No,” Lambert says, slowly and clearly.

Torrin shakes his head and sighs. He raises a hand to cast Axii, but Lambert breaks the Sign with a gesture before it’s even fully formed. Torrin narrows his eyes and tries again, with real will behind it this time, but Lambert bats the compulsion away.

When Eskel had been home this winter, Lambert had nagged the older witcher into practicing with him until Lambert could resist even Eskel’s Axii. Torrin’s Signs don’t stand a chance. 

“So. You might become a real witcher after all,” Torrin says, and grins. “Good for you.”

Lambert clenches his fists at his side and does _not_ let Torrin’s praise warm him. He turns on his heel and walks away, feeling light as air. 

The night before Lambert sets out on the Path, he answers a knock on the door to find Master Torrin standing there. Fehn had left two days ago, and the rest of their yearmates had died in the Trial of the Medallion, so Lambert is alone. Which is fine. He’s a full witcher and he can defend himself. He shoves down the old, reflexive swell of fear that threatens to choke him. 

“What?” he demands.

“I brought you something.” Torrin holds out two scabbarded swords and waits.

Not seeing an immediate trap, Lambert picks one up. It’s silver, wickedly sharp and perfectly balanced, glowing slightly in the moonlight. Lambert has been issued a pair of perfectly serviceable swords from the communal armory, but these swords are to those as a swan is to a crow. The craftsmanship is expert, the design exquisite. They are beautiful weapons. 

“Acquired quite a few swords in my time on the Path,” Torrin says. “Seemed a shame for these to go to waste.”

“Thanks,” Lambert says automatically. Then he bites his tongue. He doesn’t owe Torrin anything, even for a gift this magnificent. He picks up the other blade and holds them both in his arms. They’re certainly worth more than the entirety of everything he’s ever owned in his life, even counting all the equipment he’s been issued in preparation for his departure. 

“Care to share a drink with your old master before you go? We can toast to your success.” Torrin flashes a warm, confident smile. “It gets lonely out there on the Path.”

Lambert kicks the door shut in Torrin’s face and goes to pack the swords in with the rest of his gear.

Nine months after setting out from Kaer Morhen, Lambert is climbing the Killer again. The trail feels as it always has, but the man walking it is different. He’d gone home to find his Ma two years in the grave and his Pa a more useless drunk than ever. He’d been spit on half a dozen times and run out of town with rocks or pitchforks another half dozen. And he’d talked to every Wolf witcher he’d run across. The stories they’d told made him rethink a few of the things he thought he’d known.

“Vesemir?” Eskel had said doubtfully, when Lambert had surreptitiously questioned him about his year head’s proclivities as they sheltered from a storm together in Kaedwen. “I always thought he had something going with Goran, in the kitchens.”

“Fuck no,” Alvern had said when Lambert ran into him in Velen and asked the same question. “At least, no one ever tried it with me. I got my dick wet a few times when other kids wanted to, like you, you fucking pervert.” Alven had raised his flask in cheerful salute. “After that, not much luck with anyone else until I could pay for it.”

“Two of my yearmates fucked like rabbits,” Gweld had said, sitting across from him in an Oxenfurt inn. “But with the instructors, no. I saw Vesemir beat the stuffing out of some visiting Bear witcher in a sparring match because he didn’t like the way he’d been looking at the boys that just came through the Grasses.”

Fury has always had a constant home in Lambert’s breast, but those conversations stoked that ember into white hot rage that has carried Lambert through the long journey back to the mountains. He hasn’t brought much with him, but he doesn’t intend to stay for long. Just long enough to ensure that no other witcher trainee has the upbringing he’s had. It isn’t until he rounds the final bend in the trail that he sees the rising smoke and chokes on the scent of blood. 

Kaer Morhen is on fire, and looks as if it has been for days. Bodies litter the courtyard and bob in the moat. A section of wall has collapsed and its rubble stretches in an arc across the ground like blood spreading from a wound. 

A few other witchers stand nearby on the side of the road, all dressed for the Path. They must have arrived shortly before him. They’re all looking up at the ruined castle, too. The place is oddly silent. No clash of steel from the training fields, no laughing of the younger kids, not even the clucking of chickens puttering around the yard.

Lambert drifts forward in a daze until an older witcher--Remus, was that his name?--catches him by the arm. “Easy, wolfling. No point in getting any closer.”

“They’re dead?” Lambert asks. But the question is stupid. No one could have been left alive in there.

“Yes,” Remus says anyway.

 _Too late._ Lambert has come too late. Any hope he had of revenge is drifting away with the ashes. 

“I’m going to look for a place to put the horses,” Remus says. “Then we’ll see what can be done for the dead.”

“They’re dead,” Lambert says flatly. “Can’t do anything for them now. It’s over.” Lambert turns his horse around and starts the long walk down the trail and away, with the weight of Torrin’s swords heavy against his back.


End file.
